


Blood, Song, and Silver

by TheOtherWesley



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Eregion, Goldsmithing techniques as foreplay, Gwaith-i-Mírdain, I hope you like metallurgy, It's like canon but then they bone, M/M, Rings of Power, Science as Foreplay, The Most Daddy Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 02:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherWesley/pseuds/TheOtherWesley
Summary: This was a fic I posted on the Silmarillion Writer's Guild in 2016. It was a long time in the writing, and it is one of my favorites. I am posting it again after extensive editing and reworking, so if you liked it before, I encourage you to reread it now in its polished state. And if it's new to you, enjoy! :) It is full of pain.--Celebrimbor, lord of Eregion, ignores the advice of his peers and welcomes a stranger into his city who promises to teach him techniques in smithing that will grant power over time and entropy. He learns many things from his new teacher that he was not prepared for.The rest is history: Beware of Maiar bearing gifts.





	1. Chapter 1

_Illustration by me! RivkaZ 2016_

* * *

 

The stranger came from the West, and distrust preceded him.

The elves who lived in Eriador were in large part those who had survived the wars of Beleriand, and they had many questions for those who had been absent. Where, they asked, had this _stranger_ been during that time? Who were his kin? What had been his alignment in the politics of the old world? What place, they asked, did one of the Vanyar have amid the flotsam of a sunken continent? Where had they and their vast armies been in the centuries before all was lost?

 _“Annatar, or Aulendil as he calls himself, speaks silvered words, and spreads clean hands, offering to advise the Noldor in their own craft,”_ read a missive from the High King. _“This self-styled advisor is both over-confident and over-humble; late to our struggles and to the realm, an obsequious dandy with outrageous claims. Nothing could be more infuriating. Be cautious, cousin. The Valar have given us ‘gifts’ enough already.”_

This chilly reception was slow in thawing, and Celebrimbor received the outcast from Lindon with blunt manners and little patience. Aulendil was invited to stay in the court of Ost-in-Edhil as a matter of barest courtesy, and only so he could be better scrutinized.

When the advisor did arrive he was greeted with much whispering. He was, the king guessed, about the same age as his great, great grand uncle Mahtan would be, assuming he was still alive. He had a carven quality about his cheeks and chin and nose, but around the eyes and mouth there was a softness, a few criss-crossing lines as Men have, who have reached the middle of their years.

Celebrimbor thought him a strange chimera, as mismatched as his agate eyes (such odd, piebald eyes!); a Vanya, a smith favored by Aulë, a follower of the Valar gone willingly to mingle with the exiles… He could think of none before who came pieced together of such disparate qualities.

Before the throne in the capital, Aulendil made his formal introduction to the king and court, proving not only that he was a nimble statesman, but that he was not lacking in charm.

“I do not say this lightly: what you and your Brotherhood of the Mírdain have achieved here in Eregion is exceptional. By the rumors, I thought perhaps that you had succeeded in building a second Tirion— but I was mistaken. This city, its accomplishments… they transcend everything that has been built before now. Do you know why?”

This he asked with genuine awe, excitement clear in the sparkle of his odd eyes, and many who had been prepared to frown on him found their hearts warming.  

“Because no other great bastion of knowledge before now has had the benefit of so many of the speaking peoples’ wisdom. The Quendi, the Khazad, the Atani-- all working together to create beauty, and restore harmony to the earth… It is the _diversity_ of this place that gives it such unique strength! To witness this cooperation take place, to stand in the heart of it… I can’t tell you what an honor that is.”  

He chuckled in self-derision, “Imagine, me coming here offering guidance to _you_! That sounds brazen even to my own ear now. But I beg you, my lords and ladies of Eregion-- believe me, for I do indeed have something to offer you: insight into knowledge that could make Eregion as bright as Valinor itself; a means to rebuild your nation in—“

Celebrimbor struck his stave upon the marble floor, bringing the advisor’s speech to an abrupt halt. Cold looks ran round the courtroom with its echoes; the advisor had played a sour chord in his comparison.

“You are full of praise for myself and my city, but you may save your proselytizing. We desire no more ‘aid’ from Valinor-- We have not yet recovered from their last gesture of mercy.“

"Your majesty,” Aulendil bent low, “with all respect, I am no missionary here to call home those who left of their own volition. I too left of my own will, and though my journey was sanctioned by my teacher, Aulë, I came with no other purpose but the one I have told you.“

” _Liar_.“

Celebrimbor stood, caring not for the hushed murmurs that gathered around him. The High-King’s missive was clear in his memory; what did praise mean, from the lips of a stranger fresh from the shelter of the West? Charity that came from Aman brought with it unwanted and unwritten tithes— and he would not suffer their arrogance here, in the city he had built out of the wreckage of the Valar’s intervention.

"I was not so young when I left the Undying Lands-- Annatar, or Aulendil, whatever you may call yourself; I know Aulë has naught to do with the Minyar, nor they with him. They stay huddled at the feet of Manwë, and only left their bells and star-gazing because the Lord of the West hiked up his skirts and waded over the sea! No _Vanya_ ever suffered the soot of forge-work to mar their pious hands.”  The king stepped from the dais and grasped his guest by the wrists, turning his palms upwards as if to display them as evidence.

Celebrimbor’s own hands were worn smooth as dark weathered wood, their shape graceful and hard. But the offending palms of the stranger were hardly soft, lined with tarnish like old silver, rough with the etchings of labor the same as his own. Yet, the advisor also had long, clean nails that had been recently tended, and so with a bark of amusement to cover his chagrin, the king released his wrists.

“Ah, I see the _file for your nails_ has given you a little callous.“

Untouched by shame, Aulendil smiled and laughed in return. "Alas, I cannot pretend I have been in a forge very recently, your majesty. My travels have taken me around the continent, reading and learning and recording all that I could. But rest assured,” he winked, “I can still tell when the fire’s hot enough for steel.”

This drew a chuckle from the audience, but the king’s face hardened.

“I too, have traveled, and studied under many great teachers. Yet I in all my travels have never heard of a wandering Vanya scholar, keen on smithing. I have never heard of _you._ ”

Aulendil blinked. “I have been mainly in the East…”

“Enough,” Celebrimbor hissed through bitten teeth, and the court went silent as a cairn. “The council has heard your offer, and shall now adjourn to give it due consideration. And as for you, you will meet with me privately. _Now._ Follow.“  

In a swirl of piled silk, the Noldo rounded into a council chamber, and when his guest followed with quiet tread, he locked the door behind them.

In the sudden close privacy of the room, the two regarded one another in stifling silence.

"You—” the king laid his hands flat upon a map table, “will tell me, ’ _lord_ ’ Aulendil, exactly where you come from, and what your purposes are here. And I warn you, if you are not more forthcoming about your identity than you were with Círdan and Gil-Galad, I  too, will have you expelled from my realm.”

Celebrimbor bent over the map, fingers spread over the newly divided continent. “It seems to me this is the last kingdom you have still to peddle your wares in, so if you are keen on staying amongst your own kind in Middle Earth, you will not waste my time. If you are not a missionary, and no spy for Aman: _what are you?_ ”

Lines creased the advisor’s distinguished brow, and with a sigh he lifted a thumb to them as if to smooth them.

“Lord Celebrimbor, I hope… you can forgive me. I have nothing but admiration for you, and yet I have caused offence and anger with my ignorance. After all this time, I thought I was becoming better acquainted with the Noldor, but I am… slower to learn than I hoped.” He looked into the unseen distance and closed his eyes momentarily. “…You are _right_ to be suspicious. I have not been entirely honest with you, or your kin. It is long past time I apologized, and cleared the air.”

The king inhaled and curled his fingers, holding his breath as curiosity and validation mingled in his chest.  

The folds around the Aulendil’s eyes deepened, and his voice came slow with candor;  “I am _not_ a Vanya. I am not even, strictly speaking, one of the Eldar. I am a half-maia. One of Aulë’s folk.”

Celebrimbor felt his jaw drop; he shut it again quickly.

“…Curumo, the Cunning, begat me upon a noblewoman of Ingwë’s house. It was no happy union as Thingol and Melian’s was,” he swallowed, as though clearing a bitter taste from his mouth. “After strife between them, my birth was a gift that brought joy to neither. And, though indeed I left Valinor at Aulë’s behest, to bring light and knowledge to his favored people still in Middle Earth-- I... left also because I did not belong in that land. No love was lost between my father and I, and to my mother I was only an unhappy reminder. I have found solace in the kinship of craftsmen and among the dispossessed… But I do not blame you for sending me away, king Tyelperinquar. I have kept too much from you, and betrayed your trust in doing so. I will take my leave, and find another home.”

Aulendil glanced across the yellowed map, his face looking older still.

 _How dare you say that name. How dare you presume to be as lost, as abused by Fate as my people…_ the king heard a voice in his mind resisting; _how darest thou, a Vanya, a Maia—_ yet, somewhere within a dam had cracked, and he found himself biting back a wave of painful recognition.

How could he, twice an exile, now an orphan, fail to recognize the plight of one unjustly stripped of roots? Who had not had the love that ought to be between father and son?

“Wait—”

In the silence Celebrimbor extended his hand. “Lord Aulendil... My colleagues spoke of you with prejudice, and in my suspicion, I made accusations that were clearly difficult for you to defend against. I have been ungracious to you as a host. I swear by my blood, my star, your secret is my secret… I will not send you to further exile, as my kin have done. Let Eregion be your home now.“

Aulendil lifted his his head, gratitude and surprise written in the lines of his face. As he opened his mouth to speak Celebrimbor clucked and waved a hand, clasping those of his guest, warm copper folding in the cool, pale gold.

“You may call me _Tyelpe_ , as do all my smiths… Accept my apology, and let us begin this meeting anew.”

He gave the advisor’s hand a squeeze.

“Join us tomorrow, at the Temple of Silver. I will introduce you to the Gwaith-i-Mirdain, and you may elaborate on your ideas. I cannot promise you their _agreement_ , but you ought at least have the chance to be heard.”

Aulendil pressed Celebrimbor’s hands in return and smiled-- not the demure smile he’d worn at court, but a toothy, handsome grin. "Your majesty… Tyelpe. Thank you. This is everything I could have wished for.”

______________

Golden motes swarmed in the shafts of light filtering through the tall windows of the auditorium, filling the space between its pillars and the intricately vaulted ceiling.

Despite its scale and grandeur the Temple of Silver felt quite intimate, with the steps for the assembly hemmed close to a central dais. Painted wood embellishments and richly colored banners made the arena splendorous, rather than austere. A hemicircle of benches filled with men and women of many races, all wearing the chain and badge of the Guild, each gilt and embossed with the symbols of their respective trades. The Gwaith-i-Mírdain was comprised of the masters of nearly every craft and science, from jewel-cutting to astronomy, stoneworking to chemistry, weaving to botany; they came from far and wide to study, teach, and collaborate with the greatest minds of the Age-- and some of the greatest egoes, they laughed. The university in Eregion was rivaled only by the academy of Umbar, but that was almost exclusively a school for Men-- or rather, humans, as its founder and board were women. Besides, it was often troubled by wars and lay in the shadow of a haunted country, which was not to be spoken of. On this basis, it was agreed that Eregion was in all ways superior.

Under the watchful eyes of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Aulendil ascended the steps to the center podium, his steps echoing faintly. Seated at the farthest right, Celebrimbor crossed his legs, his focus roving between members of the Guild, gauging their reactions until preamble and formalities came to a close.

The golden chain around the advisor’s neck gleamed new-minted, and blank.

“Brothers and Sisters in smithcraft, artificers, scholars: I did not come here to belittle your knowledge. What you have accomplished here in Eregion pushes the very limits of what can be done with metal and mineral, when one has only the naked eye to study with. But what I propose to teach you lies beyond what the eye can see. It will begin with lenses—”

“Our lenses are the finest ever ground by Khazad masters; carved out of diamond and polished with the hide of unborn lambs!” snorted an old dwarrowdam, her beard wispy and grey. “With them you can spy all the stars of Elbereth, or all the puny, invisible monsters living in a drop of pond water.”

A number of “hear hear”s came from the assembly

“The Khazad are, indisputably, the finest lenscrafters in Middle Earth,” Aulendil chuckled, tucking his hands into his sleeves. This seemed to satisfy the master lens-grinder’s pride, for she eased back into her seat.

“--In Aman, however, with the aid of the gods, we have found that there is nearly no limit to what can be observed with precise enough tools.”  
His voice dropped, melodious and reverent. “Indeed, given the right vantage point, one can not only see _more_ stars in heaven than Varda ever dreamt of, but even the infinitely small points of matter that separate _being_ from nothing. It is chilling, perhaps, to know that there is equivalent space between the stars, as there is between the particles that make up our bodies.”

In the silence, Celebrimbor shifted, imagining the depths the advisor spoke of.

“My lessons will begin with lenses wrought of glass—” Aulendil continued, “And lead to lenses of the soul; for spirits, like light, can be focused, directed, and harnessed to great power. With them we can bend the essence and qualities of matter to our will.”

“Can you turn lead into gold?” Spoke one dark-haired smith, sitting in the shade of a pillar. His eyes were bright with restrained fire.

“How many times must we prove to you, Thuindor, transmutation is pure fantasy! Your old master, a great metallurgist and a friend of the Firebeards, true-- but he was a moon-brained fanatic with a head full of gas.” This from a ruddy-haired dwarf in the second row.

The dark elf sat straighter, his mysterious air dispelled somewhat by a nasal voice and a petulant tone; "Master Eöl saw with eyes unclouded! He saw the past the mundane possibilities of metalworking.“

"Look, my friend, Eöl was a fine smith, and I say this as a Khuzd! But he was madder than a nest of blue hornets!”

Bickering erupted from the enclave, echoing through the rafters until Celebrimbor held up one hand for silence.

“Brother Barazbund, Brother Thuindor, enough,” he said, not without fond weariness, “I beg your pardon Master Aulendil. These two will go on for days if we do not head them off. Please, continue.”

The advisor’s expression had grown cattish again with secret amusement.

“Well… I don’t wish to upset the balance of what appears to be a beautiful friendship—”  the audience chuckled. “But indeed, transmutation of that sort would require a vast expenditure of energy. I doubt any but a Vala could accomplish such a feat. But other significant mutations _are_ possible— as you well know! Many of you are chemists, yes? Complex elements can be reduced to simpler ones, and those same simple components can be rearranged to form new, nearly unrecognizable, creations. Perhaps not _lead into gold_ , but certainly carbon into graphite, or carbon into diamonds.”

“That, now, I deem a worthwhile pursuit! Diamonds at least are useful! Why this obsession with gold, gold, gold? I’ll never understand.” The elderly dwarrowdam crossed her arms.

Aulendil’s feline smile remained, while his eyes narrowed. “Gold.” He raised a finger, and the gathering hushed once more. “You are right. It has few industrial applications. One cannot make a drill with it, nor coat a lathe… Yet gold has _other_ properties.” He licked his lips.

Celebrimbor found he was holding his breath.

“Gold, besides being extremely malleable and an excellent conductor of heat and energy, is remarkable in that it has a long and extremely potent memory for _spells_ ,” said Aulendil.  
“It can retain and even amplify the enchanter’s will to such a degree that it can even be said to retain a fragment of the caster’s soul.”

He spread his hands, themselves glinting with precious metals. “…And of course, it is exceptionally beautiful.”

“It is said that gold was the first invention of Morgoth; that it is as hungry for secrets and mischief as he was,” said an elf similar in age to the advisor. She had not spoken before that moment, her austere face lined with the faint tracery of years. “In my experience, Brother Speaker, enchantments seldom benefit honest people, nor do they always land in the service of good masters.“

Celebrimbor turned instinctively to listen. Airalassë had been by his side since the long retreat; the tension between a tentative friend and one of his oldest ones (who still lived) made the king run a rough hand over his chin nervously. It was a general truism that the Eldar preferred the silver-hued metals over gold, and that there was a long-held belief that gold was somehow corrupt in essence. He did not want Aulendil to think they were a superstitious folk; neither did he wish for the master smith to say anything that would make him disagreeable to the enclave.

But the suspense did not last. Aulendil carried on smoothly.

“That is true of many things. Power itself is neither good nor evil. In wicked hands, even a blessed creation can become a source of sorrow, and good men may make use of evil tools to achieve lawful goals.“

Then the advisor’s smile became somewhat brittle; "…And as for the notion that gold is _inherently_ corrupt, it should be remembered that Melkor— that is, the Black Foe, could not create anything himself, but only twist what already made to his purposes. The dark lord can hardly reach us with his malice now, from beyond the Void.”

A blessed creation in the hands of the wicked recalled the Silmarils stolen by Morgoth, and evil tools used for lawful ends brought to mind the cursed sword of Turin Turambar, the dragon slayer. For a stranger to Middle Earth, the advisor knew their history, and knew it well enough to paint it in forgiving light for the present company.

Celebrimbor exhaled gratefully, seeing Airalassë tilt her head in a cool, but at least not openly combative, appraisal of the speaker. The king clapped his hands thrice.

“Well spoken, Master Aulendil! I speak for us all when I say that I am eager to see through these new lenses of yours. True innovation is so often the result of a new vantage point from which to view the world. However, I must caution you… I know you are fresh out of Aman, land of the gods, but if you wish to make yourself a permanent home here on the continent—” Celebrimbor shot a sideways wink at the podium, “you will have to stop referring to the Dark Lord by his first name.”  

General laughter ensued as Aulendil’s cheeks flushed and he took a sheepish bow.

“Caught out as the lore-loving bookworm I am! Your highness makes it clear how very much I stand to learn in exchange for my outlandish philosophies.”  

And with that, the assembly droned excitedly in dismissal. It was clear from the tone of those passing that the newest member of the order was not yet entirely above suspicion, but neither had he failed to gain admirers.

As the hemisphere of seats emptied, Celebrimbor lingered in the lecture hall, catching Aulendil by shoulder on his way to the door. “I hope you were not offended by the many interruptions. The Order is an argumentative lot, with a great many strong opinions between them.  But I promise you, you have their attention.”

“I fear rather that I may have offended several of them! I do not even know their names yet…” the master smith sighed.

Celebrimbor clapped his hand on the smith’s back heartily; “Hah! If they are offended, it means they are thinking! There is no shortage of theories and questions here, but sometimes, I confess, we find ourselves turning over the same ground. We do not think _big_ enough. We pulled this city up when we were hardly more than a camp of refugees, and we can do even more! Too much time we’ve spent only trying only to remember what was lost…” he paused, for that loss was immense, and it was not yet far enough behind them to be free of sting.

“Something tells me you are the herald of something new, something that will change the future for all of us,” he grinned and found himself clutching both the man’s shoulders, halting him mid-step, “you truly are a gift to this city. You will help us achieve great things, I feel it.”

The advisor looked at him curiously, somewhere between relief and incredulousness. “Your faith in me gives me more confidence than I can say! I am eager to begin as well. I must prepare many samples tonight if I am to have anything to display for the seminar. Will I see you tomorrow in the main forge?”

“Unquestionably, my friend.”

 _Friend,_ he said, and found he wanted to mean it.

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--Warnings for explicit sexual material at the end of the chapter. Consensual, but graphic.
> 
> \--[ Here is a visual demonstration of the soldering technique mentioned!](https://youtu.be/faK2gzXTw5M) ....Along with some soothing pond visuals? This guy's channel is great, it's 50% ancient goldsmithing practices and 50% relaxing tours of his garden, pond, cats, and his chill original synth tunes.

Celebrimbor had not survived the War of Wrath by accident. 

Like his cousin Galadriel, he had seen the deluge coming; in a country where Fate rode roughshod over the unbending and the doomed, he had known it was folly to hold onto the past, even if he alone amongst all his relations accepted it. 

Filial duty had pulled one way, and he had pulled the other; it was a luxury, perhaps, that he had been able to do so, that he had been too young to swear the fatal Oath that bound his father and his uncles. And even if he had sworn (a scenario Celebrimbor contemplated often) he wanted to believe he’d have been strong enough to reject it, to accept his fate and do as his conscience bid him-- though it had been difficult enough to break with his father and his family without it. 

Anger made it possible, and bitterness had numbed him in the moment-- how many times had he felt biting shame at the news of his family? Grief and helpless rage at each of his uncles’ pointless deaths, at the blood that followed their names… The day he had removed his belongings and taken his retinue out of Nargothrond, he had left in a spitting temper, unable to find any kinder words for his father or uncle besides  _ ‘goodbye’ _ . Even so, inside him was still a child’s voice that wailed when he turned his back, held out its hand in anguish when they’d pulled away from the bank.  

If he had known that the Valar’s war would drown half the continent, taking all the history of his people down with it into the sea, he would have… He did not know what. Perhaps not flown so quickly from what was left of his roots. 

He’d been far enough away from Beleriand that when the news of his father’s death finally reached him, it was in the same breath as the second and third Kinslayings. It had felt so distant then, and yet, somewhere within he became aware of a wound that would now never fully close. 

Like Fëanor, his father had had a mind as clear and sharp as glass, but few words to spare in explaining himself. If it hadn’t been for the necessity of training him, Celebrimbor believed his father would have preferred to work alone in all things. Certainly it had seemed that way when anyone, including his son, failed to interpret an unspoken desire, or achieve a standard of perfection that only he understood. Celebrimbor had never been a fumbling student, but his father’s wishes had not always been plain, nor his patience enduring.

He’d not understood why his mother had remained behind in Valinor when the hosts departed, not until he’d been old enough to question why he, as an infant, had not been left with her. His father refused to speak of it when asked, and with uncharacteristic fierceness defended the need for an heir. He wondered to this day if she had been forced to give him up, or if she had genuinely thought his life would be better in the new realms. Either way, her absence and the silence surrounding her mention hinted at an estrangement all too similar to that of his grandfather and grandmother’s. 

As with everything in his father’s life, the shadow of Fëanor fell heavily on his decisions, and as Celebrimbor grew, he felt more and more he was being molded as a replacement more than a successor-- maybe even as compensation. His father was the son of the renowned smith in Arda’s history, and he had no great works to his name, despite a wealth of talent. 

Celebrimbor learned all that his Noldor tutors could teach him before he’d turned four hundred, and his father had given him his modest approval. But it was not sufficient, it was never sufficient. The expectation to outshine all that had come before never relented-- even when his father was most proud of him, he could not escape that final clause, the eternal proviso:  _ and I know you can do better.  _

_ My son, who will surpass me. My son who will surpass us all. Willt thou not? For thou art capable of more, and wouldst not shame thy line by doing less.  _

If easy praise and comfort were what he craved, he had been born into the wrong family.

But it was too late to mend that rift now. He was hardly the only one with regrets or missing history in the flotsam of Beleriand. It did not behoove a king to chase the approval he’d missed in his youth.

It was the Khazad who taught him to love smithing again. Their strictness and their passion had been no less than Curufin’s, and if anything, their admiration even harder won for an elf and an outsider in their halls. But there he had been treated like an equal, like a craftsman in his own right rather than an eternal apprentice, or untouchable prodigy. His flaws were taken in stride, and his accomplishments celebrated. He’d learned to cheer at the success of others, applauding the strengths of his fellow smiths rather than fearing them as competition. When he’d left the Blue Mountains with them, he had done so as family.  

His friendship with Narvi had begun then-- a carefree, passionate friendship that burned so brightly it felt like his first, and when Narvi died, like it would be his last. He’d grown up surrounded by his own kind, and he had still then been young enough that the shock of mortality was new to him. After the end of the war he’d thrown his whole heart into love carelessly, like so many others who had needed to feel joy again, needing to remember what made life worth living. So much had been lost in exile that mourning it all was impossible, and so when easy, natural deaths came among those who had survived, it seemed like a luxury to grieve for their passing.

He had not been a king then. He’d let both sorrow and ardor rock him, had built up great citadels of passion in his mind, and knocked them down. He’d worn his heart on his sleeve for as long as he could-- and then, putting it gently away, he had taken up the crown. He was well into his thousandth year of life and he knew, finally, what was worth pouring his soul into creating: making a home for those who had lost everything, a haven for those whose art had had no use in wartime and who now could flourish together under one roof. All his vigor and strength he’d channeled into the building of Eregion, his city, and when it had been built at last, he knew he had grown up. 

It had been a relief. 

Finally, he’d found responsibilities that outweighed his personal desires. He’d put aside the ferocious demands of youth, the constant tugging at his heart, the need for validation he could not get; he’d left behind insecurity, the wounds of estrangement, the voice inside that told him always that he lived in the shadow of a legacy that could not be outshone…

And then there was Aulendil. 

Aulendil, who could swing a hammer without tiring despite his age; who spoke with the eloquence and precise diction of the grand orators of Tirion; whose precision and focus was rivaled only by his enthusiasm; whose handsome face was wise and mysterious, and whose jokes could be coarse as a tavern stool. Aulendil, who paced in even measures and stroked his chin while in symposium, who tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes, whose brow furrowed in a thoughtful scowl while he read with a tome balanced in his strong but nimble fingers. Aulendil, who sported the faintest, lightest beard; whose agate eyes twinkled with humble vanity when it was noticed.

Aulendil, who took to exploring the foothills and cloud-scraped valleys of Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains, who looked so inexpressibly distant and sad when he said  _ how old, and how grand they look still. _

Aulendil, whose familiar pace and lack of formality made Celebrimbor feel like an apprentice again in his father’s forge, but who made no biting remarks at his missteps, and gushed with pride and excitement at his competence.  

_ “Tyelpe I could kiss you! This is the most brilliant bit of metallurgy I’ve ever seen! A gold alloy that oxidizes… and blue! Blue gold! How do you think of such things?” _

_ “There you are again, earning your name. There is no one, in Endóre or Valinor, who works silver like you do. It is a joy to watch you work.”  _

_ “Come you silly boy don’t fall asleep at the bench again. You forced me once to compromise your dignity by carrying you out of the forge like a fainted damsel, and I will do so again if necessary.”  _

_ “Close. A few degrees more, it’s a whiter heat for mithril. There you have it. Perfect. Hold it there. Hah! No need for an apology, Tyelpe. Goodness, this is your forge after all! You’ve done nothing wrong.” _

_ “I must guard my favorite pupil jealously; if Aulë could see what you’ve done here he would snatch you from me in an instant.” _

How embarrassingly easy it had been for the odd-eyed smith to undo resolutions that had been centuries in the building, to reduce Celebrimbor to helpless grinning and warm cheeks. 

His tongue turned into a useless log at praise, and the world seemed to close softly around them when they worked in close proximity, his own breath loud in his ears at the touch of Aulendil’s guiding hands. The dozenth time he caught himself staring across the forge at the old Vanya at his anvil, a lump in his throat and a desert in his mouth, he drew himself together with a groan, and simply thought:

_ Oh no. _

_ Tyelperinquar, you fool. _

 

* * *

 

 

The rhythm of Aulendil’s hammering greeted him when he came to the forge that morning. However early Celebrimbor rose to greet the workday it seemed his mentor had beat him there by at least an hour, tireless even by Noldor standards. 

Throughout his workshop, tables were scattered with the various geometries of a dozen projects; squares and bars and beads of metal that would align into knotwork when they were assembled. Celebrimbor yawned reflexively seeing the pile of gauged wires he’d been up all night twisting into filigree; tedious, but satisfying work that he hoped would come together into a beautiful pectoral amulet later that day.

“Brother Barazbund came by yesterday with your order of topaz. He said that because you insisted on an emerald cut, he picked a flame-tipped rough instead of the pale yellow. He says if you waste it on something gaudy he will personally shave you bald.”  

Across the forge he heard Aulendil laugh.

“I cannot tell if that means he likes me better or worse than before…”

“He insists he hates you! Admires your work, but takes great umbrage towards your face and person,” Celebrimbor assured him.

“What a shame. I’m quite taken with him. I’ve always liked Aulë’s people, even if they’ve never much cared for me… but,” he could practically hear Aulendil grimace, “I’d happily risk a savage barbering if it meant I could put his workstation in order.”

“He says  _ he _ knows how it’s organized, and that’s what is important.”

“ _ He knows more than god, then! _ ”

Celebrimbor snorted and broke into a grin; he didn’t need to see him to know exactly what Aulendil’s expression looked like. 

“You mustn’t take such personal offense at clutter, my friend. Not all creative minds are as keen on order as yours is.” 

Indistinct grumbling filtered through the noise of the forge.

_ “... _ If that dwarf ever sneezes we’re going to lose a king’s ransom of diamonds through the floorboards. I swear to you, his beard has probably swept up more wealth than—” 

There was a  _ thud  _ and a clang of metal followed by a flood of Aulendil’s blue cursing. “Oh--  _ mother _ of  _ spiders _ , that hurt...”

It was poor form to laugh at another man’s smashed fingers but Celebrimbor braced himself against the anvil while he wheezed for breath. 

“Weren’t  _ you _ the one who made the rule about not hammering while talking?”

“Yes.”

“Did we learn anything?”

_ ” _ No.”

“Is anything broken? Did the hammer survive its collision with your dignity?”

“I’ll see you in hell, Ñoldo.”

Celebrimbor assumed there was an accompanying rude gesture but he missed it while laughing. 

Aulendil appeared around the divide in the forge, nursing his index finger and rolling his eyes. 

“Well as soon as you’re done  _ crippling yourself from mirth _ , your majesty, I have something to show you. A private lesson.”

“Very well,” Celebrimbor assented, wiping his eyes. “I see how you reward impudence.”

“With utmost patience and generosity, yes,” drawled Aulendil, perching himself on the nearby worktable with one leg propped on the bench. 

He beckoned Celebrimbor to sit. In front of him Aulendil arranged a number of liquid-filled vials; most Celebrimbor recognized; two were a mystery. 

The master smith gestured to a sheet of granulated silver. Spools and beads of filigree lay delicately atop it, ready to be soldered. It would be cut free of the extra sheeting, mounted with a clasp and filed, then polished to gleaming. The much discussed topaz would be its central ornament.

“Can you guess, my royal apprentice, what I am using to bond this silver?”  

Celebrimbor craned his neck. “I see salt, copper and iron oxide, distilled beech ash, salt, silver dust, silicate, wax, tallow…” the last two were liquid, familiar but unidentified. “These are components for fluxes and solders. If you are bonding sterling, I would think… the salt and oxide mixed with wax for flux, silver and copper dust for solder? Though if you are planning to put the piece to the fire more than once, I would use a hard solder of pure silver first, and the copper mixture after, so that the second weld does not melt the first.”  

This was common knowledge for gold and silversmiths; he wondered what his mentor could mean by testing him on everyday practices.

Aulendil made a circular gesture with one hand. “… _ And?  _ What am I using for binder?”

Celebrimbor squinted at the unknown liquids. One was clear and viscous and ringed with bubbles, the other dark and suspiciously red. “…Soap? Water? Rust?” He guessed.

His teacher, the advisor, a man of eloquent words and elegant behavior, leaned forward and spat into the first vial. It was the most jarring, borderline obscene thing he’d seen the Vanya do.

The king wrinkled his nose.  "You’re joking.”

“I am not. And the second?”  

“I… dare not guess. No. It isn’t.”

Aulendil rolled up one sleeve, displaying a shallow cut on the heal. “Blood.”

Celebrimbor exhaled and shook his head. "You reveal yourself to be a disgusting barbarian.  _ Why _ are you using blood and slaver as soldering medium?“

A glint of fire caught the smith’s eye and he crossed his arms, a finger held aloft.

“One— because it is a lightly acidic, liquid material that easily distributes our silver and copper dust, and two—“ he held up a second digit, “because it is part and product of the body. The blood, meanwhile, contains some iron, true, but its main purpose is the same as the aforementioned: it contains remnants of the one who is responsible for the smithing.”

“Is superstition at the core of this lesson?” Celebrimbor shot his friend a suspicious look, “It sounds like a fertility charm made by old wives of the Atani.”

“It is not superstition, nor is it hedgemagic; not if one has the willpower to complete the task.” Aulendil’s face grew serious, “Do you think your grandfather’s work contained only crystal?” 

The king’s expression grew dark and thoughtful; it was not lightly that anyone mentioned the Silmarils in his presence.  

“I want you to think of these,” Aulendil gestured to the fluids, “as a different kind of solder, for a different kind of weld. When one infuses something of one’s body into metalwork, it becomes easier to affix the essence of one’s spirit, or the essence of a thought,” he glanced at his pupil sidelong, gauging his attention. “But it is necessary first to isolate that which one wishes to imbue. Remember when I spoke to you of lenses of the spirit? A thought or a soul must be focused, in order to be transferred.”

“I am not entirely ignorant of what you speak. A… dear friend of mine was well versed in Khazad rune magic; our work together featured it. But many of us no longer trust in enchantments…  Our fathers and forefathers knew of magic, and Song, and how it might be applied to our craft. But we left much of that behind in the old world, and there it stays. We have not yet decided, whether or not it is for the better.”

“Song, yes! That is the lens! And there is one I can teach you,” Aulendil continued, seating himself beside the king so their gazes were level. “The world was made of Song and from it, all great magics continue. It is necessary to creating of any item of power.”

“…Which I have not yet assented to the making of!” Celebrimbor’s eyes narrowed. “You are my teacher, and I respect your aims. But it is for me to decide what is made in my forges, in my kingdom.”

A hand grasped his knee gently, and Celebrimbor’s breath caught. Aulendil leaned forward by a small fraction, the creases on his handsome face deepening with feeling. 

“I know. And you are a  _ good _ king, Tyelperinquar. You brought something beautiful out of the ashes, made a haven for those who have suffered too much already, as you have. I know that you have only their well-being at heart, their  _ protection _ . And you wish to move forward from the past, which betrayed so many of us—” he caught himself, amending, “of you and yours, foremost of all.”

“…Were you on the continent for the final battle?” Celebrimbor asked with a start. He hardly knew why he asked it, except that candor was in the air, and his face was already warm with too much attention on himself.

Aulendil blinked slow, and nodded as if remembering; “I was. Under Ingwion...” he shook his head, gold but for the grey at his temples. “I would rather not speak of it, if you do not mind.”

And Celebrimbor swallowed a stone in his throat. “I apologize, if I have opened an old wound.”

Aulendil waved a hand, releasing the king’s knee. 

“It is forgotten. But more to my point, everyone in Eregion is a survivor who has lost too much that can never be regained. My wish, and yours too, if I’m not mistaken, is to prevent such loss from ever happening again. And Tyelpe— we have the power to do it, here, now! With the techniques I am about the teach you,” he met the king’s eyes in unblinking honesty. “Trust me.”

“I do,” he heard himself answering, tongue dry.

“Then I will teach you the Song of Binding.”  
  


* * *

By the time the Winter Solstice arrived, there was more to celebrate in Eregion than breakthroughs in smithcraft. 

The harvest had been good that year, better than any in written record. Students and teachers alike reveled in their freedom from academia as seminars were paused for the season. Normal river traffic always halted for winter, but travelers from as far north as Angmar and Forochel had come by ship around the coast, traveling up the Gwathló with their ice-breaking hulls. They’d come to trade for metalwork, salt, and bullion, and brought for exchange exotic cargo from the North, the likes of which few in Eregion had ever seen: white furs, nacre shells, great ivory tusks, meteor iron, sapphires, mead, and strange edible tubers found their way into the markets, while the foreign visitors made fast friends with curious elves.

Aulendil himself purchased and took to wearing a long coat of cream-colored leather, trimmed with white fox fur, making the advisor look more than usual like a large, smug, and well-groomed cat. For the celebration of the Solstice, he had chosen to wear a woolen longvest that nestled snug against his torso, with loose sleeves and a plunging collar lined with mink. Little golden beads and seed pearls glinted on his soft leather boots and gloves. He drew many eyes in his new ensemble, and caused quite a few blushes. 

Certainly Aulendil was not the only flamboyant dresser in Eregion-- jewelsmiths were not interested in gems purely for academic reasons, after all. There was an abundance of many-faceted precious stones and gilded threadwork that glittered in the lamplight that night, the city square transformed into a twinkling dreamscape.

The king had chosen for himself dark velvets and black brocade, his ears set with emerald studs and the buttons of his coat made to match. It was almost dour in comparison to his guests, but rich in its subtlety. 

There were more splendid clothes and people shining against the winter night than the eye could take in with a single pass, and yet, in the crowd of glittering guests, Celebrimbor found Aulendil across the courtyard almost immediately, and having seen him, could not focus on anything else.

The advisor was engaged in conversation with others of the Guild; it was the custom of the older members during festivities to discuss their esoteric pursuits amongst themselves rather than mingling. 

“We are all of us such cave-dwellers!” someone in the enclave was expounding, “save for the Nandor, who do not use carpentry but rather convince the trees to grow into their dwellings, and the Sindar who lived under close-hatched forests and seldom with heavy snow. When we first arrived I’m afraid we built many flat-topped buildings that collapsed under the weight of snow in the winter. The Men of these regions were the ones who showed us the wisdom of these sloping roofs, and of south-facing doors.”

“Fascinating! That is the wonder of a cosmopolitan city,” said Aulendil, tucking his hands in his sleeves; “Wherever I go, East or West, the crossroads of many cultures are my favorite destinations. You should travel to Umbar someday and see their university and the great lighthouse. Especially you, Sister Vannessë; with your work on the Teleri’s astrolabe, you would appreciate it.”

“And  _ you _ should try harping on anything else!” laughed a master of glassblowing. “You are besotted with the East, my friend! Is our own university so unworthy by comparison?”

“Not at all! It benefits immensely from the congress of all the speaking peoples; I meant it when I said your city is unique, a gem that must be preserved against the entropy of time,” Aulendil’s expression grew sober; “that is why our latest project is of such importance.”

“Please, Annatar—“ for some had taken to calling him by that name, "it is the Solstice: let us speak of something  _ other _ than that which we slave over, grindstone and crucible, on all other days of the week!.”

He chuckled, making a small conciliatory bow.

“Very well, very well! They are beginning the dances in any case… Now-- which of you stoop-backed cave-dwellers is keen on taking my arm?”

Celebrimbor swallowed the last of his third cup of mulled wine, pressed both hands on the holly-laden table for courage and stood.

“I will.”  

Aulendil’s brow raised, his grin a challenge.

“Indeed? Canst thou yet stand, o king?” 

“I can stand.” Celebrimbor pressed forward, “and I can dance. I’ll take you to arm, you smug old fiend, if you’re not too ancient to lift your feet.”

“Careful boy, or I’ll make an example of you before your classmates,” the master smith’s voice was deep and full of mischief.

“Such treason!” he clucked, meeting Aulendil’s gaze with mocking admonition, though his heart was hammering in his breast.

The music began.

They formed two lines, each partner bowing stately across the divide, each side separated by sex for the majority, but not for all. Some women danced with women, some men with men. Others still danced with they cared not whom. It was a chill, and beautiful night. The air was full of music and brazen curiosity; no questions needed to be asked.

Dancers met at the hands, the backs of their wrists touching one another like duelists crossing swords, while each partner paced a languid circle round the other. The circles reversed, and so did the hands, and each passed the other with slow, square steps. Hands met again at the back, this time fingers interlacing, and the lead turned their follower under their arm, so that each were facing and close.  Arms raised, palms met, circles turned, each step becoming more intricate and more lively, until the swell of the music had all grinning and twirling, heels clicking in synchrony.

When the pace dropped again, the dancers fairly collapsed onto one another, stifling laughter and panting as the rhythms slowed. And this time the lines were broken; couples orbited one another in tandem, pairs circling pairs, a complex planetary rotation of robes and gowns.

As the momentum slowed, Celebrimbor found himself leaning more heavily on the master smith’s great arms, less for the sake of the dance and more for balance as he drifted closer to Aulendil’s chest, wishing somehow it would not be a grievous impropriety to lay his head on his shoulder, if only to rest from the spinning lights.

“Not bad, not bad by half…” he panted, “…for one so elderly.”

“And you neither, for a savage, uncouth Fëanorian.”

Celebrimbor breathed a laugh; “We had brave, fiery dances. A Vanya could never keep up.”

“I would have loved to see them. We were always more inclined towards song than dance, but it is an art my eyes covet.”

During the silence where both men caught their breath, Celebrimbor gazed ahead blearily, losing focus on the crowd of other dancers. Aulendil was taller than the king by half a head; in front of him, the only thing he could see was the white-gold trim of a beard on his chin. 

_ Like Círdan…  _ he thought,  _ like Mahtan. _

It gleamed so soft and light, like his hair, like the fur of his coat; the tips of his fingers strayed to touch it, wanting to understand the texture. It was smooth and orderly when stroked in one direction, rough in the other, stopping just under his lips, where his breath fogged in the cold air across Celebrimbor’s knuckles.

Aulendil blinked slow and feline; eyes like stained glass fused of blue and brown and green, eyes like he’d never seen before. They blurred into meaningless colors as he swooned, finding himself with his cheek against the smith’s throat where a pulse fluttered, the heat of blood just under the skin warm against his lips. He slid a thumb curiously, lazily, under the man’s collar, pulling it open that he might kiss the line of his neck.

He felt hands on his shoulders. “…Tyelpe.”

He did not want to listen, he wanted to follow the lines to their crux, and further.

“ _ Tyelpe, _ ” the grip on his upper arms tightened in restraint. “You are drunk. There are others watching.”

The world came reeling back into focus as he pulled away, all noise and lights and propriety.

He swallowed, and felt the apology on his lips before he could stifle it.

_ Stupid, stupid, idiot boy! How couldst thou disgrace thyself before thy teacher like an animal? Hast thou no more restraint than a dog? Thou art a shame to thyself, a shame to thy inheritance!   _

The voice in his mind was too familiar, and not his own.

“Not on my account should you apologize,” came a whisper in his ear, cutting over the litany in his head. “If you were not the king, Tyelpe, I would undress you here in the courtyard. You are so beautiful, Silver-Hands.”

The last he said in a strange dialect that made him shiver.

“I would let you. Were I not king.”

Aulendil’s soft leather gloves brushed against his sternum, teasing open the first emerald-studded button they found there--

And Celebrimbor knew that if he did not make his exit now, his humiliation would be complete for all the kingdom to see.

“I ought… There is too much drink in me to finish this dance, and I…” he inhaled, shook himself as if recovering from a blow. “I ought go. Thank you, my friend, for a lovely evening.”  

He made his way stumbling back to the tables, laughing off his condition with as much dignity as he could muster. He stayed another hour, hoping not to catch Annatar’s eyes in the lamplight, until finally, he found excuse to leave.

 

* * *

 

 

It was hours before the haze of wine left him; the level of his water clock told him it was nigh on midnight. The festivities would be beginning to settle, only those who planned to drink and laugh and cry together until the sun rose would still be lingering at the benches. The sounds of merriment still came to his room in the palace, blessedly muffled.

For a time he’d felt nothing, able to concentrate only on his spinning head and the pounding of blood in his ears. His thoughts were silent and empty, but it was only the afterglow of wine holding the storm at bay.

A knock came, interrupting his internal thunder. He groaned, forcing himself to speak.

 "I do not wish to be disturbed. I will see no more visitors tonight.“

"Even I?” Aulendil’s low voice was muffled through the door. 

Celebrimbor swallowed, and prayed the old Vanya would leave without another word so that the awkward conversation he knew he must have would wait till the morrow. Or forever.

But when no answer came, the silence broke to the creak of brass hinges, and Celebrimbor flinched, steeling himself for the dreaded questions. One thing was certain: it was his duty to apologize-- that sensation at least was a familiar one.

“My friend… forgive me. I have not been behaving as a king ought to this evening. I have no excuse. I was drunk, I took leave of my senses, in public. Your friendship means the world to me and I would not have it compromised by my foolish—”

“Tyelpe–” 

The master smith turned him suddenly around by the shoulder, cupping his face, pressing their lips together, long-bridged nose breathing hot against one cheek. Celebrimbor dared not exhale, or blink, or move, until his teacher released him. 

His face burned.

“…I am not blind,” Aulendil muttered soft against his cheek. “Do not think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been tormenting yourself. I cannot bear to see you so miserable.”

Celebrimbor sucked in a breath. _ Do not quiver, don’t you dare. _

“Aulendil, Your esteem and tutelage means more to me than anything! I would not let a…” he gulped, “ _ shameful  _ weakness of the flesh come between us. I swear I will not embarrass our friendship again. Please, do not think less of me… Please.”

Aulendil blinked and stared agape.

“ _ Shameful weakness of the…? _ Tyelpe, for the love of Mahal, who have you been talking to?” he barked a laugh, humorless.

This only increased his flustered shame, making him sound more like a child than he could bear; “I only thought… You are a man of learning and rationality! I do not want to disappoint you!”

“Dear boy, I did not kiss you just now out of  _ pity _ ,” Aulendil raised an eyebrow. “And have I ever,  _ ever _ , expressed the opinion that to seek affection is an embarrassment? No. How could you disappoint me with a simple desire for touch?”  

Ringed knuckles brushed over parted lips, and rested against Celebrimbor’s throat.  "Would you… like to return the gesture, or have I overstepped my bounds?“ Aulendil asked gently, looking up through his lashes with an uncertain grin.

"How do you always know to say the things I cannot hear without blushing?” 

“From long experience of not hearing what one desires.”

“…You have not overstepped your bounds. Or if you have, I don’t care. Overstep them further,” he gasped as he was pushed back against his desk, Aulendil half on top of him, smothering his mouth with his own.

He felt his mentor’s thigh between his legs, almost propping him up as they kissed; the needy sounds he made would have embarrassed him if they had not each been echoed by the baritone rumbling against his lips as their breaths mingled, their tongues sliding together. 

By the time Aulendil’s hand brushed the front of his leggings he was already at full mast. Celebrimbor hissed through his teeth, and when he pulled free of the fabric, his prick was flushed to a deep, shining purple.  

“Oh... And how long have you been nursing that?” Aulendil chuckled, lifting the bobbing head of Tyelpe’s erection with a graceful finger.

“All evening, I’m afraid,” Tyelpe swallowed, shaking and feeling sweat on his brow. He felt the purse of his balls pull tight against his body-- he had never wanted anything more in his life than to rut himself against that familiar thigh, or push into one long-fingered hand. But he waited, almost as faint as he’d been while drunk, as Aulendil pulled off his leather gloves, one finger at a time.

Celebrimbor bit his lip as the remainder of his fine dark outfit was opened and stripped off, and Aulendil began to unlace himself, watching him hungrily all the while. 

“Look at you! Every long inch of you, hard and shining as tumbled stone. I want to run my hands over you, polish you with my mouth.” 

“Please. Aulendil. I’m dying,” the king whimpered. “Put me out of my misery.”

He laughed, pulled them together by their naked waists, and spat in his palm before shepherding their cocks into one strong, smooth-calloused hand.

Tyelpe crooned and pushed into the tight fisted grasp, holding onto Aulendil’s formidable shoulders and kissing the soft bristles of his chaff-pale beard, finding it as exotic as he’d once found dwarven hair, and strangely comforting. 

“Might we take to bed?” Aulendil asked, hushed. Celebrimbor nodded vigorously, panting. 

It was well worth prolonging his suffering to see Aulendil stretch himself out on smooth linens, white-gold hair across his tawny chest. When he’d found a comfortable position on Tyelpe’s bed, he beckoned, and Celebrimbor hopped eagerly atop to straddle his waist, flashing pearly teeth in a grin.

Aulendil raised an eyebrow. “The king knows what the king wants.”

“I’m not especially well-traveled”, he replied, “but neither is this my first time out the door.” Then he cupped the smith’s ear in a kiss, whispering roughly “I spent the other night imagining your fingers inside me. Would you start with that?”

Aulendil sucked in a breath through his nose, and without hesitating soaked his fingers in his mouth. Celebrimbor squirmed to his knees, lip between his teeth in anticipation.

Eyes closed, he felt the smith’s hand on his back, firm and reassuring as the other teased inside him, slow but insistent, until the friction turned to pleasure. He was giddy with it, trusted it, spread his knees open for more. More spit, more pressure, till he was gasping into the pillows, tugging himself and begging with every breath.

The only words between them were short and filthy, and profanity in Aulendil’s stunning voice was delicious and shocking-- the same voice he’d heard in the lecture hall, in the forge, telling him how good he was, how perfect, how much he was taking. The very thought of it was sinful.

He felt Aulendil grasp the backs of his thighs, pull them up against him as the covered the lithe Noldo with his body. 

“Let me come in you,” and Tyelpe could only whine in assent.

Aulendil slid a slick palm over his cock, and Tyelpe inhaled deep as it nudged his entrance, pausing as his lover steadied himself. As he pushed inside, slow and halting, Aulendil gave such a barrel-chested groan of pure relief that Tyelpe felt his loins pulse, dangerously close to spilling.

"Too long…" the smith sighed, “Oh, too long since I had this…” 

He made a fist in Tyelpe’s long, dark hair and thrust in savagely, taking him by such surprise that he gasped. But it was  _ good,  _ ferociously good, and the Noldo stretched a hand behind him, finding the other’s skin, clawing in the tips of his fingers urgently. “More— hard like that, like that… have me, hammer me open, take me.”

And he did— with a snarl and hot breaths on the back of Tyelpe’s neck, growling and biting hard his nape, pulling his hair, rutting as fast and vicious till he spent inside hard with a gasp. Tyelpe shuddered, gulping air like one half-drowned, his own seed still dripping, shot from him long since. The lamp, pilfered messily of its oil, guttered and went out, leaving the two men in darkness, where they collapsed on one another, kissing wearily and pulling each other close.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--Warnings for explicit gore, violence, and torture at the end of the chapter. --

Celebrimbor watched the back of Aulendil’s heavy fur coat as he finished tying down his bags. He’d chosen not a horse but a pack of dogs and sled to carry his supplies; more practical, he’d said, than taking a horse over the pass. The dogs were happy, wooly things half the size of ponies; they had intelligent eyes that looked to him as if waiting for instruction.

“The mountains will be dreadful to cross this time of year.”

“If I leave before the thaw, all that will trouble me is the packed snow and a storm or two— and that I can handle.” 

“I don’t doubt you can manage the weather… but…” Celebrimbor crunched through the snow and caught Aulendil’s arm. “...It is a very long way to Umbar. You’ll be gone until Spring, or later.” He blinked snow off his lashes, “It will be cold here without you.”

He expected a smile and a reassurance, but Aulendil did not meet his eyes, staring ahead into the white fog of drifting snow. 

“There is something I must do there, above and beyond my duty to the university. It cannot wait any longer. I am sorry.”

“It must be a true crisis of academia to warrant such haste,”  _ and to warrant taking you away from me. _ He tried not to sound petulant, but a note of bitterness crept in all the same. 

At this, Aulendil did smile at him, and kiss him, wrapped as he was in a great fur collar.

“You will be busy here, with or without me.  And I will miss you too.” He put his lips to Tyelpe’s ear, breath steaming in the cold. “I had grown accustomed to loneliness and solitude before I came to this city. Now I fear to go back to it. It feels like shrinking… like putting on old armor that bears gruesome memories. But I will acclimate soon enough, and when I return, you and I will have the pleasure of reuniting and removing that armor together.” 

He stroked Tyelpe’s cheek, still hot from his words.

“I love you,” the king let the words tumble out, afraid to wait all winter before he could say them.

Aulendil pulled back to look at him, searching his face with an expression half curious, half dismayed.

“Do you?”

“Of course,” the king stared back, holding the smith’s hand to his cheek. “I’m not fresh from the river, I know my own heart.” He looked down, “I know it is not convenient, but it is true. And I wish for you to return to me quickly, so I don’t mind inconveniencing you with this knowledge before you leave. I am selfish.”

“The inconvenience is a pleasure. Would that I could be inconvenienced so more often,” Aulendil laughed, though there was something distant about it. “I am old to be playing at romance, Tyelpe. There are many things beyond our stations that come between us in this matter, and I cannot reveal the half of them. But I will say that you have given me something precious, that I will treasure for all my days. And if it is not love as the Eldar understand it, then it is love of another kind, just as true.”  

Then he blinked something from his eyes. “I am sorry to leave you this way. I love you too.”

Tyelpe stood on his toes to reach his lips, arms crossing about Aulendil’s neck, heart in his throat.

“I only wish the matter weren’t so mysterious,” he said finally, breaking away with a pout.

The master smith raised his shoulders with a hapless expression, “It must be done. The matter will only become more difficult, the longer I leave it. If I stay longer...” Tyelpe watched his throat bob as he swallowed, “I may not have the strength to do it at all.” 

“And you cannot tell me? Even if I wished to help?”

His face fell. “I cannot.”

“I suppose I must send you off then, so you can get whatever it is over with quickly, the sooner that you may return to me,” Celebrimbor forced a smile, ruffling the furs of Aulendil’s coat.

They embraced, and said their farewells; the king petted the great wiggling hounds tethered to his sleigh, wishing them good luck and safety on their journey.

And Aulendil left, headed east, and it would be long, long months before he returned to Eregion.

 

* * *

 

 

Tragedy struck late in winter, when the joy of the Solstice had faded and the drudgery of constant cold set deep in the mountains.

Brother Barazbund, not young in years, but no older than many healthy dwarves his age, took suddenly and deathly ill, and retired from the college to rest. 

Weeks before his sickness, the red-headed dwarf had finished what had become his master-work: a ring, mighty and square-shaped, for noble Khazad hands. It was set with red topaz, which Celebrimbor remembered him fondly for.

As it became clear the old master was becoming weaker with time rather than haler, an offer came from his relatives; they would take him home to their halls in Khazad-dûm, to treat him as only they could, with hopes that the native stone would heal his ailing spirit.  

…And if they could not, it was left unspoken— he would die amongst his own, to be interred according to their tradition. Tyelpe fought to keep tears from falling openly as he opened for the last time the door of the jeweler’s residence.

“Majesty. It’s good to see you.”  The old Khuzd was far, far too pale, his coppery beard too thin. But he clasped Celebrimbor’s hands in his own and gave them a hearty squeeze. “I won’t apologize for the mess, as I never have before, but I will say I don’t envy the poor innocent who has to clean up after me when I’m gone.” 

They laughed, and the king pressed a kiss to his friend’s worn knuckles.

“You cannot know how we all will miss you— how  _ I _ will miss you. I haven’t the words.”

“Tsch…” Barazbund turned to cough, wheezing upon recovery. “You’ll have started picking over my gem stores soon as I’m out! And that bastard dark elf will already have nicked my best emeralds...” He shook his head. “But don’t pine for me, majesty, don’t fret. Where I go, there is family, and rest, and peace. It is you, Tyelpe, I fear for.”  

Celebrimbor tilted his head, searching the dwarf’s face. “What do you mean?”

A chill blew through the room, as though the fire were not stoked to blazing. “You won’t want to hear this,” he said.

"Tell me.”

“These last few years, we all have been swallowing venom. We knew it not. There are some things that cannot be used, no matter how good the intention. Our rings… what we intended them for was noble. We all agreed… I remember we did, we thought, what ill can possibly come from the halting of decay? Or the longevity of those we love? We brandish our swords against entropy, against evil itself; ENOUGH, we say! You have taken everything from us, and now, we use the power of gods to turn you away! But it was the same evil behind us, laughing, as we used the tools it gave us.”

The king felt cold, numb from his spine to his hands, and he shook his head. “Power itself is neither good nor evil, it can be used for—”

“NO. Friend, no. Listen to me.” The dwarf raised himself from his bed, eyes stained red and glassy. “I heard the same speech you did. I know the tongue that spat it. You cannot trust him.”

“Such accusations against Aulen— against a fellow member of the Order? I know you have had your differences, Barazbund, but is this truly the note you wish to part on?” He did not know what to say; nameless sadness welled in him from all sides.

Barazbund laughed, humorless. “ _ Aulendil _ . That man, that  _ Song _ of his… Trust me, your majesty, no Vanya, no Vala, ever suffered that curse to pass their lips.”

“I know the tongue of the Valar is harsh. I know it seems blasphemous to use such power to bend the natural order, but—”

The dwarf straightened, raising his hand to his forehead and reciting a line of words that cracked like lightning and falling stones. Tyelpe stared.

“I am Khazad! I know the tongue of Mahal, at least, I know its sounds, for they are sacred to us,”  the look he gave Celebrimbor then burned into his soul. “I could have told you this, years ago, had I only heard the words of that incantation before my own ring was finished: what begins in the language of the gods ends in a something foul, something I cannot name. The words are tar on my tongue, water in my ears. They left a crack in my spirit… I can feel it. Here!”  

His eyes blazed, thumping his chest. 

“From what we have made under his guidance, no good can come. Whoever, whatever  _ Annatar _ is, he is no friend of Aulë’s, and no Vanya either with his power over earth and metal. Perhaps you knew this. Perhaps you have a reason for keeping your silence— I’ll judge you not. We were all caught in this web together, but I fear, my king, that you alone can get us out of it.”

“…You are right, my friend. I do not want to hear this.” Celebrimbor swallowed, unable to keep the dwarf’s gaze any longer. “But heard it I have. And if what you say bears any truth, even a grain, then it is my duty to weed out what has poisoned us. I will investigate your claims, though I hope, and in my heart I feel, that you are wrong.”

Barazbund sighed, looking older than he ever had. “You must,  _ must _ tread carefully, my king. I wish I were talking the nonsense of an old fool as well, but I know I am not. Do not put yourself in jeopardy while you seek this serpent, for it is very close to your breast.”

 

* * *

 

Celebrimbor did not emerge from his forge for many days. His secretaries, long used to their king’s extended periods of absence, managed the affairs of court as best they could, delaying where possible all petitioners of the throne. If men and dwarves found this behavior unseemly for a monarch, the elves were untroubled; they were accustomed to a slower pace of governing, and lords with great destinies.

In his chambers alone, he buried himself in the notes of his studies, reading and re-reading every word he found on the Song of Binding he’d been taught at the beginning of Aulendil’s tenure.

He had been taught the sounds, but not the meaning of the Song.

Each ring had been forged by a different smith, a smith who labored on nothing else for a year, achieving the highest level of craftsmanship to make a vessel for their desires. Each ring had been forged using their blood and spirit as flux, while they repeated the spell that would focused their intent. And for each ring, he remembered, Aulendil Sang in his orotund voice the words of power that resonated with metal and flesh and bone, fusing them together forever.

If there was something to Barazbund’s warning, then saying the words  _ without _ the half-maia’s influence would produce a work he could study, and test against the effects of the other rings.

_...And if I find no ill effects, no difference between my work and his, Aulendil’s name will be clear, and I can forget what Barazbund said in his delirium. Or perhaps, the spell itself is to blame! Perhaps it was taught to him out of spite by his wicked sire who drove him to exile! Whatever the case, when it is done I shall sleep easy once again. I cannot, will not, believe that Aulendil would hide such malice from me. I know he has secrets-- but who has lived this long without secrets? The man has reason enough to want privacy in his deeds, and he has never given me reason not to trust him. _

Resolutely, Celebrimbor dipped his quill, and with deliberation began drafting on a sheet of technical parchment the designs for a new project. His lines were thin and precise, as his father had taught him to draw.  _ Never set thy pen to paper before knowing already what thou wishest to see. _

He knew with all his heart what he wanted to see.

He wanted those he loved to be immune to harm; he wanted Time, who crept like a thief into every life to steal away what was most precious, to turn them a blind eye; he wanted courage for those who had to face injustice, strength for the weary who must continue their journey in the face of pain; he wanted peace, healing for those whose souls were damaged, whose past sat like lead in their breasts, keeping them anchored and drowning in the tide of regret.

He knew which of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain he wanted to help him complete his opus.

He worked first in royal copper, its hue dark as liver. He set it with a garnet that seethed with the colors of fire.   _ Airalassë my oldest friend, who crossed the treacherous ice aboard swan-ships with my grandfather, who wept when he burned, burying in ash the beasts of flame and shadow. Give us your strength, your valor, the hope you felt on the first sunrise. _

Next he worked in mithril, shining as the streams of his youth and white as snowbells. Its center spun around diamonds of adamant luster, more silver than stone.  _ Vannessë, whose first love is the stars and second the sea; gift us the melody of bright, undying shores. Show us the way home, to harbor. _

Last he worked in golden brass, strong and unyielding. He set it with blue topaz as clear as untroubled skies, twinkling like the eyes of a friend. _ Thuindor, parted too soon from brotherhood, whose heart lies in forests of nightingales and cool shadows; turn sickness to health, transmute weariness to peace, chase the clouds from our minds that we may see with clarity. _

They were beautiful, the three. All different, but alike in harmony-- as siblings are; as colleagues become.

When they were finished, gleaming from fine polish and exquisite labor, Celebrimbor knew he’d made something he could never make again. It was strange to look at them, knowing they were his masterwork; that perhaps he would never put more of himself into his designs again.

But they were not yet finished. So with his blood, and that of his smiths, he brushed on the flux and the solder, saying the words that would focus all the light and power of his will, burning it deep into the matter of the world.

The rings lay before him, almost thrumming with potential, awaiting the final blast of annealing heat that would bind intent to material. 

And Celebrimbor Sang.

The notes felt too big for his mouth, each consonant a rattle and drum. He could feel the hairs on his neck stand on end, his teeth aching. They were not words he was meant to say, not syllables nor phrase of music that could be contained in so small a vessel. They would rip him apart— he faltered, terrified.

_ Whose grandson art thou? Whose blood runs in thee? _ said not one, but many voices in his mind. And suddenly he was not afraid, but  _ excited– _ This! This was what it meant to be  _ Noldor _ . What it felt like, to achieve what others could not. 

The melody tore out of him, burning his throat, shining from his eyes. The essence he bound was not only the wishes and wills of his friends, but every boiling want he’d harbored his entire life; every scream of loss, every unbearable need for hope, every burst of kindness, every heartbeat of joy. It was all the suffering he’d meant to correct, all the pain he wished to ease, all the love he’d fostered for those around him, every elf, every Khuzd, every Man, every student, teacher, worker, friend… It was a whole city of desire he harnessed, and focused, and bound into three small circles of metal.

Then it was over.  He’d brought something entirely new into the world, something even he did not fully understand. Celebrimbor touched the rings gently, reverently, finding them hot to the touch. He’d Sung what should only have been able to be Sung by one with Ainur blood, and he’d done it alone.

“Do we put them on, your majesty?”  asked Thuindor in hushed tones.

“I dare not,” the king panted, drenched in sweat but smiling. He gently placed the rings in the palm of his hand and closed his fingers. 

“There are others of my kin more fit to wear these than I. I will send for them, and tell them what we have wrought. They will know what to do.”

 

 

* * *

 

Celebrimbor did not impart the personal nature of his venture to his summoned guests-- his cousin, the Lady Galadriel, High-King Gil-Galad, and the lord of the Falathrim, Círdan.   

He informed them in detail that he had been laboring in secret with the Gwath-i-Mirdain to produce treasures of unparalleled power and value; that it was Aulendil, called now Annatar by many folk, who had devised the method of their making, he told them as well. He even supplied in part the warning from master Barazbund (now passed, he had been told, into the Halls of Aulë, or wherever it is that the Khazad go when they depart this world).

But he could not bring himself to reveal the suspicions against his mentor that had led him to seek a means of proving his innocence. It was motivation enough, considering his history, to want to create something extraordinary that could ease the suffering of many-- and in truth, that had always been his goal, before and after the forging of the three.

“I am eager to see what powers these rings of yours can grant us, Tyelperinquar. I sense you have put more into their making than you have told us,” said Galadriel, whose bright eyes had been intent upon the ring of adamant since she’d seen it.

“The advisor I sent forth from my kingdom has made himself useful in yours, I see,” said Gil-Galad, examining the great ring of blue and bronze. “Perhaps I was over-hasty in my judgement.”

“We shall see,” said Círdan, and spoke no more, but lifted the ring of fire.

Even before the rings had fitted upon their three royal fingers, the effect of them rippled through the air; electric, brilliant, dazzling.

Each drew in a breath as they looked at one another as if for the first time; their elven faces seemed illuminated from within, erasing the scars of care and weariness that living in the world had left upon their beauty. Around them, cracks in the masonry began to fade, the water of the fountains shone clearer, the air brimmed with sweetness. 

Celebrimbor saw the cut he’d made on his forearm erase itself as though it had never been. He felt lighter, quicker, all sluggishness banished from his mind, tiredness sloughing from him like a heavy burden. The relief was so great it left him like a sob; he had hardly slept in weeks... 

Standing in the combined light of the three, he remembered, suddenly, the face of his mother, more clearly than he had in hundreds of years. She’d had red-brown skin like his own, the deepest chestnut eyes, a clever laugh when she had a secret, arms that banished doubt like sunshine; her back straight and her fingers fidgeted when she was solving a problem… She’d made even his father smile. How had he forgotten? 

A tear ran down his cousin’s freckle-dusted cheek, and he knew she felt it too; whatever this was, this power could hold no evil. Nothing this beautiful could be used for wrong. He’d been afraid for nothing.

Flowers pushed through the snow on the hills, flowers he’d not seen since his childhood. He remembered the sound of Narvi’s laughter. The taste of Aulendil’s kisses.

And then a shadow crossed their faces..

The light dimmed as a cloud passing over the sun, deepening to the grey of a storm, then began to boil, black and cinder-flecked, lit from beneath with unseen fire. Growling came from  beneath their feet, as though the earth itself was waking in anger. Wind blew from the east, seeking, pawing, wrathful; it tore at their clothes, their skin, a great sandstorm roaring in their ears. Tyelpe could barely see through the stinging grit, making out the bright form of Galadriel, hunched to protect her face, still glowing despite the shroud of darkness.

The sun became nothing more than a dull copper coin above them, and he squinted up in fear at a light that was far brighter, and much closer: a circle of flames looked down on him, its heat hitting him with the force of a hammer, a slit of pure blackness at its center, watching him, seething. 

_ YOU _

it said, in the tones of thunder and iron shrieking.

_ YOU WERE NOT MEANT TO DO THIS _

He saw ash clouds racing down the side of a black, spitting mountain, and Tyelpe thought of Aulendil in its path, caught in it, buried alone in the wasteland by this monstrous force he had summoned…  _ it was his fault, it was all his fault…! _

A flash, and the clouds were gone. Metal chimed loud against stone as Galadriel threw the ring from her finger, face drained of all color. 

“It is coming.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Celebrimbor’s boots dragged and kicked against the flagstones, strung between two great uruks who hauled him forward like a disobedient child. Their stride was greater than his; he dangled more than he walked.

There were signs, horrible signs, of struggle and resistance throughout the campus, but no students or apprentices to be seen-- at least, none that were still breathing. He saw for an instant black hair and a familiar face that lay sideways on the ground, its body and half its skull missing. He wanted to vomit. 

“Stop–” he flailed against the ground like a swimmer trying to find purchase in a coursing river, “please, stop, let me--”

His head cracked to one side, grey-green knuckles glancing off his lip and teeth. Blood drooled onto his tunic and his golden buckles.

Celebrimbor sucked in quick breaths, numbing himself with anger, ready to spend what was left of his power on one last struggle to avenge his city, the home he’d built for all who were dispossessed. He had failed at last to stave off war from his sanctuary, but he had seen to it that there were other havens in the world that would outlast his own. The shadow that descended from the east came too late to rob him of that victory, though it had taken everything else. 

Before he could muster enough strength to fight and die, his escorts came to a halt in the center of the courtyard. There near the fountain of Aulë, surrounded by soldiers, stood Aulendil. The Uruk’s red eyes were all fixed on him, though his back was turned.

He panicked, valor and reason forgotten. 

_ How was he here? Had they captured him too? Where had he been all this time? Had they tortured him? Did they know who he was? Did the Shadow want his power for its own terrible purpose? _

“Aulendil!” he slurred and sobbed his name again. There would be no happy reunion for them in Mandos if he died-- he could not bear to think of eternity either in paradise or prison if they were kept apart. 

"Please, listen, tell your master--“ he turned desperately in in the grasp of the Orcs, pleading, “I will give you whatever you want! Spare him! Spare him, I will trade anything for the Vanya’s life!” 

Hearing this, Aulendil turned, almost surprised, his hands tucked in his sleeves. 

“Tyelpe…”

Their eyes met, and silence fell on the court, even between the Orcs. Suddenly Aulendil broke into a grin, raised a palm, and slapped it hard across his thigh.

“HA!”

A guest at a party, warm with wine, listening to a rambling tale which has just concluded in a joke whose punchline becomes apparent only after a moment’s pause-- that was the look Aulendil wore, his ivory mouth wide with merriment. His laughter echoed between the smoking towers of the university, loud and unrestrained. 

“Have you really—! Have you really not put the pieces together yet, boy?”

Reason dawned on Celebrimbor as the Orcs began to chuckle around him in mocking chorus. His stomach turned, sick with horror.

“How dare you wear his face!” he yanked his chains, growling and blind with rage. “Shapeshift! Liar! What have you done with Aulendil?”

“ _ Shapeshifter _ –!”  The impostor’s mirth tripled, his friend’s face contorting with breathless laughter. It put a hand on its knee to steady itself while it buckled and gasped for breath, shaking its fair head.

“Oh Tyelpe…” it said, wiping the corner of its eye at last, “You are right. I am a shapeshifter; a very, very good one.”

The thing that looked like Aulendil beckoned to one of the monstrous Uruk guards, and it passed him a lit torch with the same deference as a servant. It strode across the court towards the shackled king.

“I can become anything I need to be. I can be… a wolf, a vampire, an ogre…” he tilted his head conversationally, holding Celebrimbor’s gaze, smiling, “a half-blood Aulendur, a Vanya smith.”

Celebrimbor swallowed, begging all the silent Valar that it would go no further, that the thing, the creature wearing his lover’s body would indeed become a wolf or an ogre and rend him with fang and claw, anything but keep talking. Instead it tapped one long finger beneath the Noldo’s chin, tilting his face up to meet its odd-colored eyes.

”I can be a mentor. A father. A friend. A lover. I can be anything a lonely, love-starved little fool like you needs me to be.  _ That _ is how excellent a shapeshifter I am.”

Any of his uncles, his father, his grandfather, would have heard this list, understood their betrayal in stoic fury and hardened their hearts. 

Celebrimbor’s simply broke.

“ _ Liar _ ,” he croaked. He did not look away, searching for some sign with eyes that betrayed him by overflowing, that this was a ruse, some tactic to throw the enemy off their guard.

“No, no, no Tyelpe! Not at all. Not this time,” Aulendil smiled down at him with cloying pity. "This time  _ you’re _ the liar. You’re trying very hard to lie right now, to keep believing in the person you loved, even though he never existed.“ 

Aulendil stroked the side of the king’s face, wet with salt tears and mucus, coarse with dried blood, the rings on his fingers cool to the touch. Then he wiped the wetness from hand on the king’s robe, and turned back to the orcs.

"I loved you!” 

The words flew out of Celebrimbor’s mouth. He could not stop them any more than he could stop his traitor chest from heaving, his heart from beating.

“Oh, you love me still!” Aulendil said over one shoulder with conviction. “You will love me with all the sincerity of a child until the moment your miserable spirit leaves your body and flies to everlasting darkness… which will be soon, Tyelpe, I promise.” 

His tone was reassuring. He threw the torch into the font of Aulë, and the water erupted with steam and burst into flame just as if it were oil. The statue’s red iron began to warp and blacken. 

_ Have you not heard the rest of the tale, my son? _

_ ‘For he changed from wolf to worm, from monster, to serpent, to naked flame; and finally he changed to the likeness of Luthien herself, so that Huan was afeard to close his jaws, and would have failed, had not his true mistress been standing direct before him.’  _

_ Such was the treachery of the enemy that even our own faces were not safe, and trust between our people became thin as dew. _

The Fëanorian’s blood stirred at last; the tears dried in his eyes. "No maia of Aulë, thou. Cur of Morgoth.”

The creature he’d known as Aulendil laughed, this time with condescension and disgust. 

“Oh, but I was! Long, long ago. Before I grew tired of my old master’s restrictions. I was his strongest, and his first.”

“Running from one master to lick the boots of another!” the king sneered, his broken lip dripping.

The Maia did not reply at once, blinking slowly in the fire’s light. 

“It was more than that, dear friend. Much more than that. I promise to tell you all about it, in time,” he said, and his deep voice grew very cold, colder than Celebrimbor had ever heard it. He did not expect the words to hurt so much.

“But first... tell me where the rings are. The three you made, in secret, while I was back in my own country. Give them to me, and your suffering will end now. I will call my revenge complete, and you can meet your family in the void.”

_ The rings. _

Barazbund had been right all along. It was the binding, the Song that all their forging had in common, that betrayed him-- bringing to a close this terrible, unspeakable farce. 

A pale hand extended, glinting, and with deliberation Celebrimbor spat toward it. 

“You could have had them, if you’d held your tongue a instant longer,  _ my dear friend.” _

Aulendil’s prim nose wrinkled, then smoothed into a little cat smile. 

“True. An opportunity lost in a moment of indulgence, but I confess, it was so satisfying I have no regrets. I will learn what I need to know one way or another. You could have answered me when first I asked, and I would have let you die gracefully. Remember that, in the days to come.”

He waved to the orcs holding the king’s chains. “Bring him to my forge.”

Smoke, acrid and poisonous, drifted from the burning monument and stung Celebrimbor’s eyes.  He let it, welcomed it in, unblinking, until he mercifully lost sight of the courtyard and the golden-haired monster that stood gloating at its center.

 

* * *

 

“There was a moment, you know… between bedding you and listening to your friends prattle about the greatness of your city, where I actually considered letting you rule here in my stead.”

Coals sparked, breaking the darkness of the forge with bands of red where their glow passed through rows of iron tools. The air stunk of hot metal and burnt flesh.

“It’s not as if I plan to destroy every kingdom that comes before me; only the ones responsible for my Master’s fall. The rest will need to be ruled; and how shall they be ruled if they are empty?”

Laughter echoed dully in the chamber. “You could have remained king, kept your symposiums and your guild of smiths, all of it. If you’d only waited, Tyelpe. If you’d only let me  _ finish _ what I began… It might have been wonderful. Or, I might have kept you closer, made you wear one of the Nine, perhaps? I wonder how they would fit an elf…”

Days of torture had produced no confession, no rings; only typical Noldor stoicism, wearisome heartbroken looks, and finally, a kind of untouchable clarity that was beyond pain.

Sauron was beginning to run short of methods that could be guaranteed not to kill his victim.

“We could still have it, Tyelpe, if you’d let go of your useless Fëanorian pride and tell me—“

“ _ I love you. _ ”

Sauron paused mid-step, silenced but the unexpected interruption. He had carefully, very carefully, kept it possible for his prisoner to speak, but this was not what he’d wanted to hear. 

“If you are still saying that then you are either delirious or more pathetic than I thought.” he snorted, returning a brand to the fire.

“No. I do. I love you even now,” Tyelpe’s voice was wet, and small, but steady. “You know I am not a very good liar. I cannot even lie to myself very well. But you can-- you’re the most artful liar of them all.” 

Celebrimbor laughed, a breathy, painful sound.

“...All that rage and grief and all you can do is vent it on me–  _ me _ ! I was not even  _ born _ when the Silmarils were forged! I, who broke with my own kin, who hid with the wounded when the final battle came! Who never shed a drop of my kin’s blood, who am cursed to live in exile and never see my loved ones in Mandos! Who could have more cause to hate the Valar than I? And yet, I am the only Fëanorian left alive for you to vent your spleen on! What a sorry vengeance that must be…”

“Do not speak of what you cannot understand,” Sauron growled.

“But I do understand. I know you craved kinship, and affection, as much as I did. You say that Aulendil was not real, but that is also a lie,” Tyelpe choked. “That he was not the whole truth of you does not make him fiction. And whatever you are in your entirety, I will love that part of you that was kind, and earnest, and brilliant, forever. And I am sorry, my friend, that you cannot pull back from this path you have taken, I am sorry that you have chosen the most useless and destructive consolation of all to salve your grief. I cannot bring back what you lost, nor be the downfall you wish to avenge. I am only Tyelpe _._ And I love you.”

Red coals sprayed over the ground as Sauron yanked the hot iron from the forge and drove it upwards through Tyelperinquar’s ribs. 

“ _ Silence! Still your idiot tongue, you disgusting child! I hate you, I hate all your kind, your family, your breed, your species! I will eradicate you from this earth and piss on the wreckage, useless whelp of Eru! Don’t you dare speak another word to me!” _

And Tyelpe did not. His mouth filled to overflowing with blood and his eyes stared ahead, wide and empty of bitterness.

“Shoot him,” Sauron hissed.

“My lord, he is already–” the Uruk guard hesitated.

“SHOOT.  _ HIM _ .” the Maia bellowed, face contorted and no longer remotely human, the white-hot iron boiling and flaking in his unscorched fist.

The archers dutifully knocked their arrows and took aim, and asked no more questions before letting the black barbs fly.

Sauron rose in a storm of sparks and ash, exiting the bloody cellar with fury that disguised a sinking, terrible emptiness. 

_ “Raise his body on a spit. Leave it where the whole city can see.” _

Blood churned in the streets and the horizon vanished into smoke and flame, and looking upon the ruins of Eregion, the courtyard where small white flowers blossomed, he knew: there was nothing and no one left in Middle Earth that would understand what he had cherished, or why. 

The One Ring gleamed on his right hand, and all that he had been drained away into the gutters, lost to memory.


End file.
